


A Shared Fantasy

by nikkiscarlet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Denial, Dominant Crowley, Dream Sharing, Light Dom/sub, Light Food Play, M/M, Other, Top Crowley (Good Omens), briefly imagined sexual coercion (fantasy), submissive Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikkiscarlet/pseuds/nikkiscarlet
Summary: Written for A. Z. Fell's Erotica: Love & Lust Through The Ages Vol. II.The year 1800 is coming to a close, and Aziraphale finds himself indulging in a private fantasy in his new bookshop. But perhaps the fantasy isn't as private as he thinks.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69
Collections: Love and Lust Through the Ages Volume II, Top Crowley Library





	A Shared Fantasy

_**Soho, London** _

_**December, 1800** _

Cocoa wasn’t _quite_ something the average shopkeeper in Soho could indulge in just yet, being more of an aristocratic luxury unless one had good connections. But thanks to a little housewarming (or perhaps ‘shopwarming’) gift from dear Mr. Crowley some months back, Mr. A. Fell had quite the supply to enjoy whenever he fancied. Full blocks of solidified chocolate liquor[1], collected from travels across several countries, from which Aziraphale could shave little pieces to melt down, sweeten with honey, and enjoy warm in his cup on a cold night like this. He watched the snow fluttering down onto the streets from the cosy comfort of the little office he’d tucked away for himself in the eastern corner of his shop, wrapped in a blanket he’d picked up in Nepal, and sipped at the indulgent treat.

The taste always made him think of Crowley. Chocolate was a somewhat bitter drink on its own, but if you gave it just a touch of something sweet, you were always gifted with a rich, complex, and decadently comforting experience that overwhelmed the senses and set your heart aflutter.

His mind drifted languidly on that current longer than it perhaps ought to have. On the decadence of chocolate, and of other sensual pleasures, and of his friendship with the demon. He found his mind revisiting an imagined scenario that had been creeping into his mind with increasing frequency of late.

“Well, don’t you look snug as a bug in a rug?”

Aziraphale — the imagined Aziraphale — gasped and was immediately on his feet, though he hugged the blanket a little tighter to himself. It wasn’t that he was at all surprised or frightened (it was his fantasy, after all), but the scenario called for him to have been taken unawares, and the fun was in playing the part.

“Why, Mister Crowley,” he said, his voice a little breathy. “I thought I had locked the door for the evening. However did you get in here?”

Crowley was a leering shadow, draped against the edge of a bookcase. He was dressed as Aziraphale had last seen him, about a week prior, in a tightly-tailored black overcoat that barely added any bulk to his slender silhouette, under which he wore what Aziraphale assumed to be the latest in fashionable evening attire. In honesty, Aziraphale found the incoming fashions to be a little drab compared to the colour and opulence of the previous century, but Crowley (as always) made it look sleek, roguish, and alluring. His newest haircut reminded Aziraphale of a style he’d seen him wear back in ancient Greece, although a little more windswept. And the neatly-groomed side-whiskers were a rather nice new addition. It all came together to form a very romantic image.

“I _am_ a demon,” Crowley reminded him, removing the dark lenses he habitually wore to reveal the bright, slit-pupiled eyes and intense gaze he kept hidden beneath them. “Takes more than a lock to come between me and something I want.”

“Oh! Well.” Aziraphale smiled hospitably, because in this little daydream he was supposed to be very naïve. “Forgive my rudeness. Was there something I could help you with, dear fellow? Did you . . . forget something here, on your last visit? I'd be happy to help you retrieve it."

Pushing off the side of the bookcase, Crowley took a couple of slow, purposeful steps forward. “You could say there's something I'm here to collect," he said, tucking his discarded glasses into his breast pocket. “Not an item. More of a debt.”

“A debt?” Aziraphale blinked, or more accurately, fluttered his eyelashes. “I don’t recall any debt.”

Crowley was getting closer. He chuckled and gestured at their surroundings. “Look around you, angel,” he said. “You’re standing in it, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, knowing perfectly well what he meant.

“I mean you wouldn’t be here if not for me.”

He took another step toward him, long legs closing the distance between them quickly. Aziraphale stepped behind his chair to try to keep things looking respectable. As an angel ought to.

“You’d be in Heaven, in a bland office somewhere, doing some mind-numbing desk job with Archangels constantly breathing down your neck while you silently count down the days to Armageddon.” Crowley pointed a long, elegant finger at his own chest. “I ensured that wouldn’t happen.”

Aziraphale knew all this. He wasn’t sure the real Crowley knew he knew this. The real Crowley had never told him, but he’d found out all the same, via a few odd comments from Gabriel and a little detective work. He’d pieced enough together to have a pretty good guess at what had put a stop to his unwanted promotion, at any rate.

“If it was indeed your machinations that allowed me to keep my current post, then you have my thanks, of course. But I would hardly agree that this renders me _indebted_ to you!” He gave a nervous little chuckle as Crowley stepped around the chair. “You decided of your own accord to meddle in Heavenly business. It isn’t like your . . . your devilish dealings with humans. I didn’t enter into some sort of _contract_ with you. I owe you nothing!”

He insisted this most convincingly, even though the very fact that this imaginary version of Crowley was bringing it up at all rather indicated that Aziraphale felt — and worried — that he owed him greatly.

Handsome Crowley, with his tousled red curls and his devastating smile, laughed and drew closer still. Aziraphale took a step backward for every step Crowley took toward him, until he found his lower back pressed against his filing drawers. He fumbled his grip on his blanket, and it began to sink off his shoulders, revealing the blue velvet dressing gown he wore over his shirt and breeches.

“C-Crowley, honestly,” he stammered. He blushed and ducked his head demurely, as one did in such situations, at least according to certain books he’d been reading lately. Even so, he couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering back up to Crowley’s eyes. “You’re standing very close, and I’m not dressed for company. I-Imagine if someone were to look through the window now. What an indecent scene they would think they were seeing!”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and the curtains over the windows drew closed.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale gasped in his daydream.

“Oh, right,” he sighed in the real world, where he had to stop himself snapping his own fingers to draw the curtains, instead getting up to close them manually. It certainly wouldn’t do to have anyone peering through the window at him here, either. Alone or not, things were still likely to get fairly indecent beyond this point.

Once he was settled back in his chair, he pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, feeling a chill that had less to do with the weather, and more to do with the distinct lack of warm, demonic hands sliding over his arms. He snuggled into his seat and returned to his fantasy, where he wasn’t alone and he had a handsome, dangerous demon looking at him like a starved man looked at a five-course meal.

. . . He really, really was doing that, actually. Aziraphale noticed it right away, as the fantasy resumed. There was the expected desire, the hunger, all the anticipation he would have expected from someone about to successfully coerce him into some decidedly un-angelic activities. But there was more to it in this moment than at other times when Aziraphale had indulged in this guilty little reverie. There was something softer in his eyes. A warmth, still blazing with passion, but tempered with a familiar kindness that Aziraphale recognized from real-life memory (which Crowley himself always denied). There was awe— so much of it that Aziraphale felt himself blushing again, because really, awe was too much. There were little twinges of pain, which were always there, ever since he first met him, and which always made Aziraphale feel compelled to somehow soothe him. Most of all, though, there was a profound joy. The twin of what Aziraphale felt whenever he looked at Crowley. Really, it was almost too much to take in. It felt so vividly like _him_.

He was talking, and honestly, Aziraphale hadn’t even been paying attention to what he was saying at first. Which was odd, since he was supposed to be the one forming the imaginary demon’s words. He caught the tail end of it, though, and it was enough that he felt he could jump back in where he’d left off.

“ . . . great taste. Always did like that shade of blue on you. Bet the velvet feels nice against your skin.” Crowley was caressing his shoulder through the fabric. ”Ever worn the robe just on its own?” he asked in a conspiratorial murmur, and leered at him, but it wasn’t the depraved leer from earlier. This was gentle and playful. It pulled a bashful little smile out of Aziraphale, and he almost answered the question directly, but he shook himself. No, no, this was a distraction. Crowley was _menacing_ him, and a good angel of the Lord was meant to stand up against it. Or at least put up a little bit of protest, first.

“That’s none of your business, vile fiend,” he admonished, gathering his blanket back up around him as best he could while still holding his hot chocolate.

“Oh,” said Crowley, looking rather taken aback. “ . . . All right. Sorry?”

Aziraphale blinked. Crowley wasn’t supposed to back off so easily. Or rather, he _was_ , he _would_ , normally, but not _here_. Here he was supposed to be . . . well, more vile and fiend-y.

“Y-you’re forgiven,” said Aziraphale. “But . . . but all the same, your convincing Gabriel not to promote me off of Earth duty doesn’t entitle you to my body!”

Crowley looked stunned. He _was_ stunned.

“Of course it doesn’t,” he said. “I never— who told you about that?”

“Wh— you did!”

“No, I didn’t! I specifically— what?”

This was very confusing for Crowley, who thought he was having a very pleasant and lucid dream. Last he’d been aware, he was curled up in bed, at his townhouse a little ways across the city, indulging in a well-deserved snooze after a successful day’s work converting his neighbour’s wife and their children’s tutor to atheism. He was also pretty sure he’d sparked the first embers of a love affair between the two as a side-effect. Unintentional, but potentially very fruitful. The nascent sexual energy stirring between the two humans had affected Crowley as well, and his mind had been filled with thoughts of Aziraphale before his head had even hit the pillow.

As with any dream, Crowley had come into awareness somewhere in the middle of whatever was going on, and found himself pressed against Aziraphale’s supple body and grinning as he heard him say, “Oh, my.” Crowley could see that his own hand was up, and he’d apparently just snapped his fingers, though he had no memory of what he’d just miracled. Didn’t really matter. Whatever it was had impressed or flustered Aziraphale enough to evoke quite a fetching flush of colour across his cheeks, and a little tremble that stoked the fire in Crowley’s belly enough to alert him to the fact that he was, in fact, dreaming. Which, admittedly, was somewhat disappointing in one respect, but wasn’t so bad in another. Crowley liked lucid dreams. They were a creative playground in which he could play God.

Or, at least, they usually were, but his mental reconstruction of Aziraphale wasn’t cooperating today. He’d been quite looking forward to charming the breeches off his luscious little angel before shagging him boneless, and wasn’t sure why his subconscious was suddenly resistant to this idea.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, didn’t understand why his imaginary Crowley wasn’t following the bloody script. It was very like him though, he supposed. Very authentic.

“Well surely, there was some nefarious motivation behind it,” Aziraphale insisted. “A demon doesn’t just hand out favours for nothing, after all.”

“They were going to replace you with _Michael!_ ” Crowley reminded him. “If I hadn’t stopped them, I’d never have any fun again.”

“ . . . Oh,” said Aziraphale, deflating a little. Of course, that made sense. It was the less terrifying, less sexy, but far more logical explanation. Yes, Crowley was keeping him around in order to take advantage of him, but it was specifically to take advantage of Aziraphale’s incompetence. It was an odd time for his mind to remind him of the obvious, but perhaps the most appropriate time. He nodded quietly, both within the daydream and in real life, feeling the chill creep in around him again.

Crowley could see Aziraphale slowly sinking into himself, and knew well what it meant, because he’d seen it so many times in the real world.

_Oh, I see,_ he thought to himself, his heart swelling. _This isn’t a ‘charm the aloof angel’ dream. This is a ‘comfort and pamper the sad angel’ dream._ He was very impressed with his subconscious for such a nuanced portrayal of Aziraphale’s defense mechanisms.

He took Aziraphale’s soft, exquisite hand in his, and bowed just slightly as he brought it close to his lips. “Earth would be very dull indeed without my very favourite person here to share it with,” he elaborated, and then kissed his fingers.

Aziraphale had been about ready to settle in for a good mope, and maybe a comfort read, but now wasn’t at all certain what to think. His mind was torn between dropping the daydream entirely, and clinging to Crowley’s words. He studied his face, looking for any sign of mockery or irony, but finding only that same, sincere warmth and desire bursting through his unblinking gaze. A large part of him wanted to blow it off as a silly, last-ditch effort by his mind to cheer himself up.

But the little flutter in his heart wanted to hear more.

“I’m sure you say that to all the angels,” he half-joked, feeling his cheeks tingle as Crowley carried on peppering little pecks across his knuckles.

Crowley straightened up to his full height, his eyes aglow as he pressed his weight against Aziraphale again, and took his face in his hands.

“You _are_ all the angels,” he said, and kissed him.

The surprise and the intensity of it caused Aziraphale’s breath to hitch. He could feel the softness of Crowley’s lips, the scratch of artfully-grown stubble from his chin, the slither of his tongue as Aziraphale welcomed it into his mouth. All of it with a vividness he’d never experienced before in a daydream. A small whimper escaped him, and escaped the fantasy world as well, only very briefly startling him back to reality. But he dove back in immediately, excited to see where this was going.

When Crowley pulled back from the kiss, his breath hot on Aziraphale’s lips, he smiled in a lust-drunk sort of way and whispered, “Is that the chocolate I got for you?”

At first Aziraphale didn’t understand the question, but then remembered the cup in his hands. “Oh! Yes,” he said. “This is from the French block, actually. Had some of the Spanish one yester—”

Crowley pecked his lips again, in a way that was the very opposite of chaste, and when his lips pulled away once more, something warm and sticky replaced them. Two of Crowley’s fingers, dipped in chocolate and pushing their way into his mouth.

“Moi, je veux voir le plaisir que mon cadeau te procure, mon ange,” he hissed with all the seductive capacity one ought to expect from the Serpent of Eden.

If Crowley hadn’t had him pinned against the filing cabinet, Aziraphale might have sunk to the ground from the weakness in his knees. Out in the real world he sank backward in his chair, dazedly dipping his own digits in his chocolate and sucking on them with the same shaky breathlessness he had as his daydream-self locked eyes with Crowley and moaned around his fingers.

With his free hand, Crowley snapped his fingers again, and gave a shuddering exhale as every article of Aziraphale’s clothing (besides that decadent dressing gown of his; that could stay) found itself neatly folded on his desk, baring soft, warm skin to his eager touch. Further sweet sounds of delight resonated from the angel before him as he luxuriated in Crowley’s gropes and caresses, and in the slow, sensual slide of velvet being playfully pushed off one of his shoulders.

“Give me something to play with, angel,” Crowley breathed in his ear, brushing his hand down between Aziraphale’s legs and grinding his own erection against a soft hip. “Not out of obligation, but just so I can make you feel good.”

Aziraphale sucked a last kiss to the tip of Crowley’s middle finger, then looked up at him with large, twinkling eyes and moued, “Couldn’t I be obligated to you just a _little_?”

Crowley was so taken in by the implications of that flirtation, he almost didn’t notice the cock that sprouted, fully erect, into being beneath his hand. Dainty compared to the instrument Crowley had manifested for the occasion. He stroked it gently, the way one might a cat, and was delighted with Aziraphale’s responding mewls.

It took only the briefest of fumbling with buttons and wool to free his own member and press it against Aziraphale’s thighs.

“Get your legs around my waist,” he commanded, sotto voce.

Aziraphale complied readily, and as he locked his ankles and wrapped an arm behind Crowley’s back, Crowley dipped his fingers back into Aziraphale’s cup, deciding that the fluid inside would be much more useful as olive oil. So olive oil it became.

Once again, the intensity of sensation astounded the both of them as Crowley’s lubricated fingers slid inside Aziraphale, prepared him, stretched him, and pulled back out to massage more oil onto his own cock. With both sufficiently slick, they sighed hot air against each other’s lips and moaned into each other’s mouths as Crowley wasted no time burrowing deep inside his angel and plowing into him fast and hard, all while lovingly stroking the angel’s prick between them. Out in reality, Aziraphale’s movements were causing his chair to creak, while Crowley was rutting into a fast-growing wet spot in his sheets.

“You feel so good,” Crowley whispered. “So real. Sweet Satan, it only makes me want you more.”

“You do want me,” sighed Aziraphale.

Crowley pressed their foreheads together. “I _adore_ you,” he declared, with an openness he couldn’t have elsewhere. “Aziraphale, I _love_ you.”

Aziraphale came shortly thereafter, and Crowley wasn’t far behind him. The end was abrupt, with no cooldown snuggling on Aziraphale’s end, although he might have liked it. There was only sitting alone in his shop, breathless from the best orgasm he could recall in centuries, but troubled. Crowley carried on happily in his dream, romancing an imaginary angel who loved him back, while the real Aziraphale talked himself down.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he assured himself. “Desiring to _be_ loved doesn’t mean I’m _in_ love. That’d be silly.”

He picked up his cup and smiled into it.

“Just a little indulgence. Nothing more.”

**Author's Note:**

> [1]: "chocolate liquor" in this case doesn't refer to anything alcoholic. It's just the technical term for raw liquid chocolate, which in this case has been solidified for easier transport. I'd discovered that Crowley buying chocolates for Aziraphale in 1800 was technically an anachronism, since solid chocolate confections weren't really a thing until the 1840s. Before that, chocolate was primarily recognized as a drink, and in Europe it was mostly a luxury for aristocratic sorts. But you could still get solidified blocks of the unsweetened chocolate liquor, so I decided that was what Crowley had brought for his angel in the deleted scene! 💗
> 
> Thank you so very much for reading! I loved being part of this zine. 🥰


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